Bound To A Demon King

Chapter One

It was a dream. It had to be.

Those were the words I clung to as my waist arched of its own accord, hips buckling desperately against the moist, insistent friction beneath them.

Something was wrong with me. Terribly wrong.

And yet — God help me — I couldn't bear for it to stop.

The pleasure tearing through my nerves was unlike anything I had ever known. It hijacked my body entirely, stripping away will and reason until there was nothing left of me but sensation.

"Oh God—"

The moan that clawed out of my throat raw and unhinged. I couldn't recognize my own voice. My hands flew up and found the headboard, fingers curling around the slats as I thrashed against the sheets.

Again and again, his tongue — wet, warm, devastatingly precise — dragged slow and torturous across my folds, grazing my entrance without ever quite breaching it. His thumb worked the swollen bud of my c**t in tight, maddening circles. The deprivation was its own exquisite cruelty; a sweet, unbearable pain that made my thighs tremble around nothing.

Then, finally, one finger pressed inside me and I shattered apart at the seams.

No, I thought dimly, as the thrusting rhythm built and the pleasure became electric. I shouldn't be doing this.

It felt filthy. Sinful. The kind of thing I would be ashamed of come morning. I would probably never be able to tell it to the priest during confessions on Sunday.

But God, I couldn't stop it!

Good didn't begin to describe what this was. ‘Good’ was far too small a word. This was something close to transcendence, and I was certain I was about to lose myself completely to the other side of it.

Uncontrollable heat gathered in my lower belly, coiling like a lit fuse, tightening and tightening until it threatened to consume me entirely.

I had never felt anything like this. Not in my waking life — and certainly not in my dreams. My love life had always been predictably, quietly dull. The luxury of a dream like this had never been afforded to me.

Until now.

And the man responsible, whoever he was, was not my boyfriend.

I didn't know who ‘he’ was. I couldn't picture his face, couldn't hear a voice, couldn't grasp a single feature to fix him with. I knew only the grip of his hands — firm and proprietary — pressing my thighs wide and lifting my hips toward his mouth like an offering.

In the murky logic of the dream, I forced my eyes open and looked down.

My nightgown had been shoved up above my navel, leaving me entirely exposed beneath it. A ragged gasp broke from my lips at the sight — a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper.

Then the sound died in my throat.

There was no one there.

The sheets between my thighs were empty. Yet, the grip on my skin remained. The warm, slick pressure of a tongue remained. The obscene, wet sounds of it continued without pause, filling the quiet room until my face burned.

How?

I stared. Dents pressed into the flesh of my thighs where fingers held them apart — visible, physical—with nothing to explain them. No hands. No body. No man.

Nothing.

Dread cracked through the fog of pleasure and sanity rushed back in all at once.

I struggled to sit up. My limbs refused to cooperate, bones gone soft as rubber, but I forced myself upright and wrenched my thighs together—

They didn't move.

Whatever held them resisted. And then — in apparent punishment — the finger inside me thrust hard, the tongue pressing flat and deliberate against my c**t, and the orgasm I had been cresting toward broke over me without mercy.

I didn't just cry out. I shattered.

My vision went white. My back arched off the mattress. Every muscle in my body seized at once, locking me in a paralysis of pure, blinding ecstasy that I had no name for, no frame of reference for — nothing in twenty-three years of living had prepared me for the violence of it.

Somewhere, very far away, I heard a knock.

The presence between my legs stilled as if interrupted. If it spoke I knew he would be cursing.

Then slowly, it withdrew. Lips peeled away from my skin. Fingers slid free of me. The iron grip on my thighs released, one hand at a time, and my spine sank boneless into the mattress.

A wave of cold swept over me from nowhere — sharp as ice water, raising gooseflesh across every inch of exposed skin. I shivered and couldn't stop.

The knocking grew louder.

"Miss Moretti?"

"Miss Moretti!"

"Rachel — your father asks that you join him for breakfast this morning."

Mrs. Owen. The housekeeper.

The white static faded from my vision in slow, reluctant increments. The familiar ceiling of my bedroom materialized above me — white plaster, the hairline crack near the light fitting I had always meant to mention.

My bedroom.

The same white walls, the same white sheets, the same pale morning light filtering through the gray curtains. I had been here — the dream had taken place here, in this very room, in this very bed.

The boundary between sleep and waking had been so thin it was nearly nothing at all.

I sat up slowly and looked down.

My nightgown was bunched above my stomach. My underwear had been dragged to my knees. Faint red marks — the shapes of fingers — scattered across the inner skin of my thighs. And beneath me, the sheets were damp with my own arousal.

Exactly as I had seen it in the dream.

My breath came in short, shallow pulls. I pressed a hand to my sternum as if I could slow my own heartbeat by force.

What the hell was this?